


domesticity

by chartreuser



Series: domesticity [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, domestic happy times, two idiots share a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya attempts to bring Napoleon back, and Napoleon attempts bringing him to somewhere like home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I went to see TMFU four times. Obviously, I need medical attention. A lot of it but like how could I not ship this??? My heart MY HEART

"Find him," Waverly says, and that is that.

***

Illya is used to spies being volatile. Napoleon's disappearance after the last mission was only to be expected, his lodgings cleanly wiped and belongings gone. All stripped down to the furniture now, oddly hollow. The sight makes leaves him slightly distressed.

It's an odd feeling; having Napoleon gone.

Illya finds it simultaneously hard and easy to remember that he was a thief: he's grown used to his constant presence, grin wide and fingers always skirting. He's also not as annoyed at this newly-assigned mission as he thought he would have been. Gaby isn't surprised, but he prefers to admit defeat when it comes to guessing about what she's thinking.

"I suppose you'd do fine in persuading Napoleon to come back," she says under the car. Her hands are dirty, marked with oil as she repairs it. She's fond of going back to a mechanic when not occupied with whatever assignment Waverly has decided to pin on their heads. Illya likes that. People in their profession need to forget about what is it they do from time to time.

He replies after missing half a beat. "What makes you think so?"

He tosses her a spare part at her command, and she catches it with ease, slotting it nicely into the machine, inclining her head to meet his gaze. Illya straightens, not certain of what she's going to tell him next. "Oh, I don't know," she smiles at him in the usual manner that she does, and he can't help but think about how Napoleon should be beside her in this instant, smirking.

She wipes her fingers as she moves past him towards the table, picking up a blueprint to study as she continues. "You're the best candidate to bring him back, really. All that pining is rotting my teeth."

Illya frowns. "I do not pine. I am just used to having Cowboy around. An annoyance like him is hard to forget about."

"So your recent nervous disposition is brought upon by missing him?" She sends him a sideway glance, and Illya puts on his sternest expression. "You're awfully irritable lately. That's saying something."

It doesn't seem to work.

"Maybe I do. Only a little," he answers her curtly, and listens to her resounding laugh as he walks briskly through the exit.

***

Illya finds out that Napoleon's been laying low in London.

He learns how his back loosens when he flirts with the hotel receptionist; that he always chooses to live in establishments with the most exits. Napoleon likes scotch after he returns from whatever he is doing each night (petty theft); and still walks with that swagger that screams 'easy target' for thieves. His grin is the same, the cocky tilt to the edge of his lips still-grating, even when Illya is always a considerable distance from seeing it up close now.

It's been five months. He's disturbed to know that he hasn't seen any of Napoleon's genuine smiles up close for this long, that he hasn't been able to coax it out of him, the artificial smugness in his eyes lightening away to reveal earnestness; the stretch of his neck when he tips his head back to laugh. He noticed it in Istanbul and he notices it now, an entire street away.

Napoleon is making conversation with a passerby whose wallet he had stolen. Illya has to appreciate his audacity. He'd thought about the way he carries himself, full to the brim of American carelessness, the lavish, bespoke suits that cling to his frame as tightly as his confidence, assuming that it was only an imitation, since he _was_ in the habit of replacing anything of value with immaculately-done forgeries.

He looks like he's doing it now, with his hands expressive and gesturing about the neighbourhood. There are one or two cuts on his fingers, and Illya pushes down the unreasonable surge of protectiveness that wells up in his brain.The Cowboy is more than capable of getting knocked about; he can go and suffocate under a collection of all the people he's slept with for all Illya cares.

The stranger makes his farewells and Napoleon pats him heartily on the back, as though they had known each other for years rather than three minutes. Like Napoleon is more than happy to switch out his current life with this counterfeit persona he had built for himself.

Illya puts down the paper, finishes his coffee, and looks towards every direction but Napoleon's fingers.

***

Illya returns to the hotel in the early evening, and begins to phone Waverly before he changes his mind and calls Gaby instead. She could pass on the message.

"Hello?" She mumbles sleepily into the phone, and Illya doesn't suppress the smile that surfaces on his face. He puts a pawn that's toppled over back to its original position as he tells her the locations of Napoleon's current hotel.

"Cowboy isn't doing anything. All he does is meet up with his contacts and drink alcohol."

He swears he could hear her eyes roll through the telephone. "Don't tell me you're surprised about that."

"I'm not, I just think he is wasting time." Illya thinks of how Napoleon waltzes about London, slipping into the city as he does almost everywhere else, that he must have felt unbelievably carefree, like he could have done anything. When he wasn't part of U.N.C.L.E..

He studies the chessboard in front of him, and doesn't feel its appeal like he usually does. "Have you made contact with him?" Gaby asks, and Illya decides to disassemble the scene.

"No," he confesses. "But I plan to." He hears Gaby pouring a drink. Napoleon's influence is clearly strong in her. In the both of them, really, but the woman is drinking even more alcohol than before. "Well, tell him that we need him back at U.N.C.L.E., but let him take his time. I think Waverly's patient enough. Call it an extended vacation, medical leave, whichever."

Illya bristles. "We can not afford to give him time. Napoleon is too happy with where he is."

"Or what?" He hears the sound of glass knocking onto tables. "It's not like he can escape forever. He knows that, he'll come back."

Illya pauses. "Or he will keep running, and when he comes back he would not mean it."

"What's so wrong with that?" Gaby asks, and Illya has nothing to answer her with. "He knows he will go to prison otherwise. Napoleon will come back; it's not like we have any important missions we need him for. He'll turn up when there is. All we need to do is re-establish communication with him."

Illya sighs, and thinks about how the three of them always works so seamlessly as a team. They're already comfortably familiar with each other, and Illya feels odd not to have someone to bicker with during missions. But if Cowboy truly left, he supposed that he and Gaby could handle it. They would. They definitely would.

 "Oh, Illya," Gaby says, and Illya doesn't know why he slammed the phone back onto the receiver as hurriedly as he did.

***

Illya keeps watching Napoleon (it's his current mission, he has an excuse), but there's nothing much occurring. He wanders about London going through pubs and tailors and restaurants. The only thing out of the ordinary is that he's... sketching.

It's not like Illya is in any place to judge. In all honesty, he rather wants to see them--but every person is entitled to their own privacy, and he doesn't particularly want to find out Napoleon's own thoughts, anyway.

(He's a womaniser. The sketches are probably full of women: Illya isn't very interested in them lately.)

He doesn't really do anything else. He walks around and takes out his sketchbook from time to time, lives like a man of luxury, leisurely in every action: Illya thinks he's planning something.

What he doesn't expect is for Napoleon to have plans flirting with every single man he comes across. It's all mildly infuriating, thinking about him that way, despite understanding that conceptually, men have sexual needs and Napoleon is very, _very_ good at fulfilling them.

When he tells this to Gaby sometime during the next week, she laughs so hard, she drops the phone.

"I suppose you haven't approached him yet," she says once she has regained her breath.

Illya brushes one of his fingers onto the strap of his father's watch, and thinks about another pair of hands tossing it to him, a lifetime away. "That is true."

"Napoleon is probably aware that you're following him. There's no need to be incognito." Her voice has a hint of amusement to it, but Illya decides that this is not the time to interrogate Gaby. Between the three of them, he thinks he lacks the sharpness that the other two have, because he has no idea what she is talking about now.

"Why do you think so?"

She sighs.

"The both of you need to pull your acts together. Just trust me on this," and Illya does.

***

When Illya finally decides to get reacquainted with Napoleon, he supposes that Gaby had not meant for him to follow him all the way to an established art museum at two in the morning.

He stands behind him as he stores the painting away, fingers deft as he works, inhumanly quiet. There is a reason for his reputation, Illya reminds himself, and resolutely does not think about them holding a pencil to an angle, or how often they were wrapped around a gun.

Napoleon is shocked when he turns around, but not enough to alert the guards, and raises an eyebrow at him, same as ever, holding up his hands almost theatrically. "Why?"

Illya's gaze flicker downwards. "Why not, Cowboy?" The idiot does not have any eye bags, not now, and his fingers seem to have healed just fine, judging by the way they move under his gloves. "I see that you remembered to deactivate alarm," Illya says, squinting his eyes to see if those were bruises peppered above his turtleneck.

"Why don't we talk about this later," Napoleon says noncommittally, and they fall back into a system that Illya is all too familiar with, their footsteps quick and Napoleon leading them out without any disturbances whatsoever.

He follows him back to his hotel.

They are quiet until they've reached the safety of Napoleon's hotel room. His equipment is in hidden compartments, but everything else is a mess: briefcases on the coffee table, ties on the back of the chair, and a pair of sunglasses on the floor.

"You should be more careful," Illya reminds him. "Maybe they can track you here."

Napoleon shrugs off his jacket as he walks into the bedroom, pulling out his suitcase and coming back out to gather his things. "Which is why I'm leaving. I have an inkling as to why you're here, but we could talk about it in the morning, couldn't we, Peril? It's rather late."

The painting is laid carefully on the writing table, and Illya forces himself to make eye contact.

"You expect me to believe that you will still meet me." Which is a sound conclusion, Illya thinks. It's not like Napoleon isn't well-connected enough to disappear again, and it would only be an unnecessary hassle to track him down one more time. "I think you could disappear. Again."

"Now what's the point of that?" Napoleon is nearly done packing, and Illya drags his gaze away from the sight of his silhouette, bent over to clasp his suitcase. He thinks of the way he had straightened one time to toss him his father's watch, his hands in his pockets and expression compassionate--

"Well, if we had the time, we'd go to a restaurant and have some salad, catch up with old news." His tone is seemingly relaxed, but Illya knows him better than that. "Except we don't. You can find me at this address, at 10 o'clock."

Napoleon turns his hand over to fit a small piece of paper into, and he pockets it, considering.

"I could find you again, Cowboy," Illya says, voice flat.

Napoleon is quiet for a long time, but at least Illya is comforted by the fact that he can read him now, that this isn't some stranger but his own partner.

He looks back up to find himself being studied, the cowboy's face just a short distance away from his own. "So?" Napoleon's eyes glint in the dark. "Are you coming?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I accidentally edited this work to look like it's complete... but clearly it's not. 
> 
> Admittedly, this chapter was just procrastination. It's all just a ploy to enable myself to write some domestic Napollya fluff (instead of studying) because who doesn't want that? I want that. I wanted it so much I wrote it.

Napoleon's safe house is bordered by trees, and surrounded by multiple clones of other similar buildings. There is no clear line of sight, and is hard to sneak up on the residents. Ideal conditions aside, Illya can see why Napoleon has chosen this place, even if it was not what he had expected from him, because while it doesn't have the requisite American glamour that seems to be so prominent in Napoleon's poor taste, it is picturesque and obviously expensive. 

Napoleon sprawls onto the couch once he's let Illya in, back arching as he grins. "I suppose this is the part where we do the talking," he takes off his shoes before fluffing up a pillow to put behind his head. Illya doesn't bother to comment on the way he treats house guests; because the morning light is starting to slant through the window, and he can see that the bruises on his neck are finally fading. 

"Not really," he says, settling down in the other seat. "You know what I'm here for." 

Napoleon snorts, and looks away. His gaze is focused on the view outside the window, studying the trees as if they were the painting he had stolen not too long ago. Illya waits. He has time to spare. 

Eight minutes have passed when Napoleon answers. "Peril, I'm sure you're aware that I'm not looking too forward into going back." 

Illya has to avert his line of sight when faced with the intensity of that stare. "I expected that," he starts, but is interrupted before he could continue. 

Napoleon's posture is relaxed and conceited, but his tone is not. He is not the only person to carry this juxtaposition wherever he goes, but his mannerisms always grate on Illya more than most do. It's all because of the excessive amount of time he was required to work with Napoleon, he's sure. "So you could go back to Waverly, and tell him that I'll come back on my own terms." 

"No," Illya says, popping a grape from the table into his mouth. "You will come back with me, or I will stay here until you do." 

Napoleon lets out a laugh, and stands from his previous position. "Alright then, Peril. Make yourself at home." He winks at him, and one of the halfway-genuine ones that Illya has been seeing finally occurs. Napoleon shrugs out of his shirt as he walks away, and Illya very determinedly does not move from his chair. 

"I will, Cowboy!" He calls out a second too late, and hears the shower in the bathroom already running. 

His reactions are rather slow, as of late, but Illya thinks that it is not too bad to be in a reflective state when it comes to Napoleon. He picks up the discarded garment and tosses it into the washing machine, looking around the house. 

It is a mess. It's evident Napoleon had taken it upon himself to distribute evidently-stolen paintings around the house. Like it was fashionable to lack organisational skills again, or perhaps it's just that he has no sense in general. The pieces are covered, yes, and even though the house is secure, Illya cannot help but think about the amount of money Napoleon would have lost, if any friends of his has decided to pay him a visit. It's not hard to take interest in any of the dubiously-covered canvases lying about the place, and it's not like Napoleon could easily pass these off as a forgeries when the loss of the originals had already been blasted on the news. 

Illya sighs, and leans his back against the wall. Perhaps someday, he wouldn't be the idiot that goes around cleaning after stupid American spies anymore. Let Gaby do that for the next mission instead of him. Maybe she'll start to see that his grounds for complaining aren't that unreasonable in the first place. 

When he's halfway done with arranging the paintings in somewhere more secure (Illya doubts Napoleon actually uses the fireplace in summer, anyway), Napoleon materialises next to him in a bathrobe, and _nothing else_. 

"Redecorating already, Peril?" He raises his eyebrows, and Illya refuses to even look in his direction, but he caves, eventually. Napoleon is weakening his resolve. He has to stop this development.

Napoleon gestures at the fireplace with his waving fingers, and Illya goes back into hiding the ridiculously ancient paintings from sight. "Do you want to put some clothes on and help me, Cowboy? Or would you like to handle millions of dollars in your underwear," and turns to watch the familiar stretch of Napoleon's neck, the movement of his jaw when he laughs. 

He thinks that he doesn't mind playing housekeeper for a few months.

***

The first day goes smoothly, until Illya realises that Napoleon doesn't actually have a guest bedroom at midnight.

"Go sleep on the couch," he grumbles, when Napoleon appears at the foot of the bed, still clad in his undergarments, eyes hooded and visibly exhausted. "And why must I do that? You moved in by yourself."

Illya shrugs, shifting his weight. It is a _very_ comfortable bed, which is entirely expected of Napoleon. "You said that I should make myself at home."

"Well, yes, but have you considered that this is also _my house_?" Napoleon sits down, and already Illya can feel the heat from his body seeping into the bed. He is incredibly warm for someone who is wearing so little.

There's an uneasy feeling in his gut when he reconsiders the situation. Napoleon had brought him here, somewhere that was probably not supposed to be known by any of his contacts. This was for after his heists, where he kept what he had stolen, a stupid practice, but something only he could have probably pulled off. 

This place wasn't even in U.N.C.L.E.'s files. 

Illya sits up, intending to leave when Napoleon appears to change his mind. "That's alright, you can stay there," he says, and Illya freezes. 

"No, I can take-"

"I think this is big enough for two," Napoleon winks at him, and flips over the bedsheets to climb in next to Illya. "We'll make do."

He pats his shoulder somewhat awkwardly, and Illya closes his eyes in defeat. "Good night, Cowboy," he sighs. 

"Sweet dreams, Peril," Napoleon says cheerily, and Illya can feel his breath on his neck, warm and cloying. 

He thinks he should have just dragged Cowboy back to U.N.C.L.E. instead of staying. At least a grumpy Napoleon would have been easier on his sanity instead of having to actually sleep right next to him. 

***

The next few hours calmly washes over the both of them, with Napoleon and Illya relaxing around the house, doing nothing criminal or anything related to espionage. They still keep out of each other's way well enough, and haven't actually spoken more than ten words after waking up in each other's arms.

Since then, Illya has taken to keeping himself awake. Napoleon does not seem to care particularly much, except he wakes to see a chess board in front of him one evening. They don't talk about it. 

Three days have gone when they break the odd silence that had surfaced around the house. "I must say, Peril," Napoleon mutters, his legs on the sofa and shoes dutifully removed (Illya had threatened to dislocate both his knees once; If the capitalist pig couldn't clean up after himself, he ought to at least keep the house clean), "I never expected you to actually be this obsessive about cleanliness. But somehow it's just not that surprising."

He doesn't look up from one of the books he found sitting around in Napoleon's bookshelf. "Should I apologise for keeping good hygiene?"

He affects a dramatically hurt expression. "You think I'm unhygienic?" Napoleon raises an eyebrow, and Illya resists the increasingly strong urge to shut him up. He'd look so much more handsome with his mouth closed. 

He ignores him and keeps on reading the text, but finally succumbs to looking up at Napoleon's incessant staring. "What?" He asks, and berates himself for being unable to resist temptation. Illya doesn't think that he'd want to hear what would come out of Napoleon's mouth next. 

"I was thinking about lunch," Napoleon tilts his head at him, and Illya gets suspicious. He doesn't want to know why he's looking at him like that. Lunch with Napoleon would probably mean that he'd be poisoned and forced to temporarily shift his bed from the couch to the bathroom. 

Which is not too bad of an idea, admittedly. The tub is actually big enough for someone as large as him. It could probably fit in someone of Napoleon's size at the same time, should the place be attacked.

Illya straightens. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

"To lunch, yes," he starts, but Illya cuts him off. 

"Why." 

Napoleon stretches and shuffles to the kitchen. Illya watches him move, his grace somewhat lacking now that he's in a house that he could relax in. There are scars on his thumb and index finger, but Illya thinks that those would heal faster than Napoleon's eye bags.

He shifts in his seat and thinks about his offer. Illya got into the habit of going down to the joint a few blocks away to take care of food. He hasn't seen Napoleon actually leave the house or cook anything in the mean time, but that may have just been his carelessness when it comes to monitoring him. On these details, in the least.

"Why not, Peril?" Napoleon begins to remove ingredients from several cabinets, grabbing a newly-washed pot from the sink and lighting up the stove. "You don't have to do anything but wash the dishes later," he waves a spatula at him, and points it in his direction. "Just sit there and look at the ceiling, if it pleases you." 

Illya purses his lips, and does exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> send me any domestic headcanons you have on [tumblr](illyaks.tumblr.com) if you want! or, you know. just come say hi and yell about shipping.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you know i type everything out on my phone? because i do. help me.

Napoleon has stood over the stove for a considerable amount of time now, still stirring. Whatever he is cooking has him strangely concentrated and quiet, but Illya could still see him looking to his direction every once in a while. 

"What do you want," he asks, when he registers the apron Napoleon is wearing at last. It's an obnoxious shade of yellow (although its garishness doesn't surprise him, this _is_ Napoleon), with miniature drawings of cowboys patterned all over it. It's atrocious. Illya ought to burn him with it. 

"Is it fun staring at newspapers like that," Napoleon says, inclining his head. He dips a spoon into the risotto and brings it up to his mouth, tongue darting out for a fraction of a second. 

Illya briefly thinks about how those lips would wrap around a few fingers of his, and brushes off the thought. "Maybe."

Napoleon drops the spoon onto the tabletop, and steps aside from the pot. He's pouring himself a glass of wine when he cuts off Illya's rather _unprofessional_ daydreams. "Do you like what you're seeing?"

His neck snaps up so fast that Napoleon actually looks rather concerned for him. "What?"

Napoleon waves his hand up and down his body with an unnecessary flourish. "The apron. I thought of you when I bought it. Do you want the one with the Russian flag?" 

Illya's face is faintly hot, and he brings up a hand to scratch at the faint stubble. "I don't cook."

Napoleon has an eyebrow cocked at him. "Why not, Peril?"

"You seem to be doing just fine by yourself." Illya shrugs, folding up the newspaper neatly to put it aside. The coffee table is almost exclusively his now, covered with concealable weapons and an unfinished game of chess. The only thing that belongs to Napoleon is the sketch book that lies on top of Illya's stack of newspapers. He tries not to think about how comfortable this place had started to be for him, and how none of his belongings felt distinctly out of place. 

Napoleon fills two plates of risotto, and wraps a foot around the chair to drag it backwards as he sets them on the dining table. "That's not very fair, is it, seeing as you're taking advantage of my hospitality."

"And cleaning up after your lack of a discipline, yes, so it is really me that is the one doing you a service," Illya mutters, coming up against Napoleon's back to steal a mouthful of risotto with a spare fork. His breath audibly hitches, and Illya jerks away the hand on his back. 

"So?" Napoleon still has his back facing him, his hands gripped tight on the edge of the table before they loosen. "Has my undisciplined cooking impressed you?" 

Illya considers, swallowing. "It is good, Cowboy." 

"Really," Napoleon raises an eyebrow, and helps himself to a spoonful as he turns, making a face.

"Yes."

"But it's not Russian?" Napoleon exhales, and Illya can feel the warmth of his body from where he stands. His cologne is noticeably lighter. He thinks he prefers him like this, less made-up and rougher around the edges.

"It isn't. Maybe I'll reconsider the apron," Illya grins, and when Napoleon laughs, he no longer sees the bruises left from the man who had taken him to bed, a few days ago. 

***

It doesn't come as a complete surprise when Napoleon asks to borrow his 'pretty face'.

"What," is Illya's first response. It's his default one, ever since he joined U.N.C.L.E. with a certain idiot. 

Napoleon is popping grapes into his mouth and balancing a pen on top of his fingers. "Draw, Peril. It's when people make lines look like pictures," he says, and Illya rolls his eyes. 

"Why me," he breathes out, turning the page of his novel, "when you have neighbours. Steal a picture and draw a portrait." 

Napoleon says, "I suppose that could work," but pauses. "How unromantic of you, Peril."

"I don't have time for romance."

The hand that was on its way to putting another grape into Napoleon's mouth halts, mid-air. "Really. How depressing." 

Illya frowns, blinking at the way Napoleon is dragging his eyes down his neck, resting at his opened collar. His tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip, and Illya waits, watching him shift his gaze to make eye contact. 

He thinks there's something with how Napoleon looks at him this way, unguarded and strangely vulnerable. Not when he can't tell if a silence like this has a purpose; most of them are pointed, over-eager. But he's quiet now, for this brief moment, and Illya feels like he's been pushed into the dark. 

"I suppose that is something we can agree upon, unfortunately," he murmurs, stepping in to where Napoleon is lying, still refusing to avert his gaze. He grabs Napoleon's wrist and brings it up to his mouth, biting into the grape before pulling away. 

***

"How is he," is what greets him when Illya picks up the phone. 

He clears his throat. "Alright." 

"Just alright? Or do you feel like the one week of radio silence you've given me should be extended?"

Illya winces, and apologises. "There is nothing much to update you on."

Gaby hums, considering. "Just as well. Nothing much here, either, so the both of you still get to enjoy your honeymoon." 

He leans back against the table and sighs, careful not to disturb any of Napoleon's pencils lying on top of it. "Do you enjoy cleaning after everything he does? Because I don't."

Gaby's laugh sounds through the telephone, and Illya is struck with how much he's missed her lately. "Yet you do it anyway."

Illya doesn't know if any of the answers he has would appease her. "He needs it." 

"Does he?" Gaby's voice is sympathetic through the telephone, leaving Illya feeling odd-footed. He looks towards the coat stand, and there are places for two of his favourite jackets, and his cap hangs upon one of its branches. 

"I hope so," Illya says, and it feels like a confession. 

***

Illya bursts into the master bedroom in his frustration one evening, attempting to find a spare clock around the place before going to sleep on the armchair.

Napoleon is wild-eyed on the bed, a novel held open with his hands. "Can I help you?" He raises an eyebrow, and Illya tries not to huff. 

"I need a clock," he says, and is taken by surprise when Napoleon smiles at him, somewhat shyly. 

"Why, Peril, I didn't know that sharing a bed with me was that unbearable."

"It isn't," Illya starts, but realises that he has no actual reason he's not loathe to admit. 

He feels a small tightness settle in his chest when Napoleon tugs open the bedsheets. There's a pillow propped up behind his neck, and his unmade hair curls disobediently over the crown of his head. 

Illya takes a tentative step closer, and tries not to stare. Napoleon gives him an exasperated look, and he narrows his eyes at him in turn, eliciting another one of his laughs, careless and unbearably content. 

Illya thinks that this is what was missing from him lately; this feeling of being spoilt by the world, with what he could do. 

He climbs into bed and doesn't think about Napoleon next to him, light casting shadows under his eyelashes and mouth slightly parted in concentration, a finger running along the spine. 

Illya says "good night, Cowboy," and falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what i'm writing tbh

Illya wakes to Napoleon's head on his chest, his right hand flat over the planes of Napoleon's back. His breath hitches at the sight of him like this, loose-limbed and seemingly pliant. It's still dark outside, but Illya is able to observe the sharp turns of Napoleon's jaw like this. He's always been enigmatically beautiful, but there's something about how peaceful he looks when he's asleep, his usual expressive face smoothed out like the calm before the storm. 

Then Napoleon shifts in his sleep, and Illya winces, remembering that his leg is still slotted in between his thighs. 

It's not that Illya is faulting Napoleon for having a functional male body. If he did, there's some odd saying in English about a kettle and a cup, and although he's unconscious, _Illya_ is. 

He sighs. There's not much he could do to hide his own reaction to Napoleon other than attempting to extricate himself from this position.

Illya lifts the arm wrapped around his waist, but the body on top of him only tightens his grip around his chest. Gritting his teeth, he gives up and lies back onto the pillow, willing his _interest_ to ebb away. 

Except that life has some kind of a personal vendetta against him, and Napoleon starts to stir. Illya freezes. He doesn't know the proper courtesy of apologising to your partner about finding them physically attractive, and has no inclination to start any time soon. All he can do is hope that Napoleon won't take this too badly. 

He doesn't even mind being teased to the last inch of his life. Illya would take that over losing Napoleon's approval. 

By the time he looks back at him, Napoleon's eyes are half-lidded, eyebrows narrowed slightly. Then he seems to register Illya's face, and grins. 

"You look funny from this angle," he whispers, and Illya is on the verge of a heart attack. "Did I ever mention your limbs have the power to freeze earth over? I thought Gaby was exaggerating. Except the rest of you is like a furnace. What an exemplary Russian." 

Napoleon lifts himself up into a sitting position, and stops halfway, probably realising what position they'd end up being in, and ends up holding himself above Illya. It would be a kiss if either of them leaned in. 

And Napoleon doesn't do anything. He stares back, assessing, and Illya feels licks of panic starting to rise in his brain. 

They stay like this for an unbearable amount of time. One minute could pass, but he wouldn't know. Illya doesn't bother to keep track with time now, because he can see Napoleon's eyes like this, pupils blown wide and his face still-creased from sleep. 

Then someone shifts- either him or Napoleon, and he feels his knee brush against his cock. 

"Oh," Napoleon breathes out. He purses his lips slightly, and Illya has to drag his gaze away from them. He looks elsewhere, _anywhere else_ , his jawline, the faded scars on his torso- and climbs out of the bed, making sure to be gentle as he shifts Napoleon out of the way, not looking back.

***

"Gaby's coming over," is what Napoleon says when Illya resurfaces from the bathroom, a shower later. 

He's still on the bed, holding the phone to his ear. Gaby must have said something funny, because Napoleon is making a somewhat strangled expression, obviously trying not to appear like he's laughing. 

Illya leans by the wall and watches him resume the conversation. He's not trying to build any distance between them, and Napoleon is actually looking back at him in between moments of his conversation. The laughter from his face is ebbing away, and Illya doesn't do so much as shift his weight. 

Gaby's calling for a reason. If this is a new development in anything, then he can't miss it. Never mind what Napoleon might think of him now, or if he wants to keep his distance. Illya isn't even sure if he should be apologising. He's ready to invest in a few hours of chess when he hangs up and shifts his attention to him, and Illya's eyes flicker up from his watch. 

Napoleon's smile is faltering a little. "Well, Peril. I guess we couldn't have kept this up forever." 

Illya doesn't look away. "No," he finally agrees. "I guess not."

Napoleon tilts his head back and closes his eyes. Irritation seeps into his posture and Illya wills down the urge to take it out of him. He's stepped beyond the line already. The last thing he wants to do is go further than what Napoleon is willing to overlook.

Napoleon says, "sometimes I think about what would have happened if I hadn't got caught." 

"Then this wouldn't have happened."

He lets out a laugh, and it's bitter. Illya hadn't thought that it'd be so jarring to hear tiredness in his voice again. "Yes. Of course, 'this' constitutes a lot of things, doesn't it?" 

He climbs out of the bed and walks over to Illya, not quite pinning him against the wall, but blocking off all his escape routes. "How do you stand it, being in the field? I've broken so many bones, it's a wonder I'm still standing upright. Do you think they will ever let me go." 

The brittleness is back in his eyes, and Illya doesn't know what to do to take it away. Napoleon's bathrobe is loosened, and there are lacerations and burns and scars left over from missions from U.N.C.L.E., from the CIA. He wonders if there were ever any from his criminal days. 

Illya has his own fair share, if not even more. Except he chose to become an agent, and Napoleon was coerced into it. He had never left art to become a spy. The paintings in the fireplace, the sketchbooks on every surface of this house- they're all evidence. Despite what he says, he's good at what he does at U.N.C.L.E., but Illya sees all the resentment and reluctance and wants to ask: was this ever worth it?

He grasps for something to say. "You want to leave."

Napoleon ducks his head, and looks towards the ground before returning to eye contact. Illya supposes that this was just who he was, always sliding away to come back at the last moment. "I don't. I don't want to leave you, or Gaby. I just think there's a limit to my body."

Napoleon is looking back at him, hesitant. "The Vinciguerra mission, the layover at Berlin, that basement in Shanghai—I don't know how you stand it. The torture. It doesn't. It doesn't _leave_ , Peril. We have our limits; I don't know how much further I could push my own."

"It'll be. It'll be fine," Illya says, and his stomach churns when Napoleon's face darkens further. "You are good agent, we will talk to Waverly. They shouldn't have pushed you so far, me and Gaby will talk to him." 

Napoleon is searching his face for something. Illya's fists clench and unclench, and he does not lean forward to touch a hand to his face. He doesn't run his fingers through his curls, unmade and slightly puffy, doesn't press a thumb to his inner wrist. Illya doesn't pull him in. 

Napoleon says, "will this change anything?"

"Will what?" 

The tug to the corners of his lips is uncertain now, and Illya doesn't think that he's seen anything like this before, like Napoleon cautious and lacking his usual confidence. Not to this extent. 

Napoleon places a hand on his shoulder. They roam upwards, to his jaw and his cheek, and Illya isn't sure which one of them moves first, but they kiss. 

He doesn't know if it's normal to want someone this much. If it's entirely healthy to want someone that it's visceral, like it would break him to pull apart with Napoleon's hands around his neck and their mouths on each other. 

Illya bites down his bottom lip and Napoleon gasps, clenching his fingers on his shoulder and pulling him closer. They move apart slightly, and Illya is mesmerised by how Napoleon looks like this, thoroughly flushed and his mouth red. 

He wants him, he thinks again, and flips their position so that Napoleon's back is against the wall. Illya has been wanting him for so long that he doesn't remember when it started, if it was when he first saw Napoleon's hand wrapped around a gun or if it when he noticed the way he grinned, feral and almost wolf-like. He thinks he wanted him from the beginning.

Napoleon has a hand lightly skirting the zipper on his trousers as Illya has his mouth on his neck, the exact same place where the man in London had left his mark a few days ago. "Why didn't you, just now? I know you wanted me."

"I didn't know that you were mine to take," he says, and Napoleon throws his head back to give him room. Illya bites down, pulling away to see the bruises form.

Good. He should be the one leaving marks there. 

He doesn't notice that he's grinning until he pulls back to see Napoleon looking back at him, fond. Illya doesn't even know if he's playing with him, but decides that he doesn't care for now, not when Napoleon's bathrobe is loose and his artist's fingers tracing along the top of his trousers. 

"So? Would it change anything?" Napoleon asks, when they both realise that they've been staring at each other for far too long. His face is heated under Illya's palm and he thinks he could get used to this, falling in love with him. 

Illya asks, "do you want it to," and feels the coils in his gut unravelling as Napoleon's eyes light up, his mouth parting slightly to meet Illya's own.


	5. Chapter 5

He doesn't know when he started to go soft on Napoleon, but Illya is posing for him now, his hand loosely wrapped around another one of his novels about the place. To be fair, Illya wasn't sure what he was agreeing to. The bastard had happily asked him in the middle of sliding his lips down his cock, and Illya wasn't thinking, yes, but how could you blame him? 

"I must say, Peril, that if I'd knew that sex was how you'd be persuaded to sit for me, I'd have done that a hell of a lot sooner." Napoleon is balancing his sketchbook on his legs, the muscle in his thighs clearly defined. He lets himself look, this time, remembering their grip on his waist and how they were slick with sweat—

"Really," Illya rolls his eyes, careful not to tilt the angle of his head. "I thought it was because you had no balls."

For a moment, Napoleon stops drawing to look up at him, contemplative. "I'm pretty sure you've seen them, Peril. Just now, rather."

Illya gives him a look, and Napoleon winks at him, gleeful. It's tempting to lean in and press his mouth to his neck, to pull him onto his lap and slide his hands up the sides of his thighs. 

Napoleon seems to catch what he is thinking, and drops both his pencil and his sketchbook to the floor. He takes the book from his hands and leaves it on the nightstand, swinging a leg over Illya's hips to straddle him. His hands automatically move forwards to steady him, and Napoleon grins, running a finger to the scar on his face. 

"Cowboy," he says, allowing himself to watch the curve of his lips, resting his thumb over them. Napoleon looks up at him, eyes half-lidded, and takes it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it. 

Illya curses. "You're impossible," he gently removes his thumb, pulling Napoleon in to kiss him, feeling the the ridges of his teeth and thinking that he still wants more. 

When they finally break apart, Napoleon rests his forehead against Illya's and smooths his hands over his back. "You were right. I was scared. I knew, but I didn't do anything about it." 

"Why?"

Napoleon shrugs. He looks at him like he did in Istanbul, in New York, in Moscow, and Illya wants to ask himself, _what have you been doing without him, all this time?_

"Cowboy," Illya says, and kisses him, thinking all the while of finally being able to lose control.

***

When Gaby finally comes for dinner, Napoleon is back to his high spirits. Illya doesn't miss the raised eyebrow that she directs his way when she sees the rather deep bruises all along his jaw. 

As of his usual fashion, Napoleon charges on, pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary. 

"You're an incredible sight for sore eyes, Gaby," and pours her enough alcohol to drown five horses in. 

She tilts her head at him and squints, smirking. "Are you sure that your eyes are the ones that are sore?"

Napoleon fixes her a surprised look, but no one is fooled. He turns his head away to raise an eyebrow at Illya, only to look back at Gaby. 

"You are relentless, really." Gaby grins at him, and Napoleon downs his drink in one go, turning to head back to the kitchen. He slaps Illya's ass on his way, but he thinks he'll let that slide. Illya will reciprocate later.

He turns his attention back to Gaby, who is already halfway through her glass. "You look like the cat that ate three canaries," she says, and Illya takes that to mean that he's being smug. 

"I think I'd be happier if the canary was better at cleaning his own house," he looks around, despairing at the amount of jackets and socks he sees in a glance. 

Napoleon pouts at him from the kitchen, and Illya squints his eyes at him, mocking. 

"Peril. Didn't you say that I looked much better with your clothes off?"

Illya spots Gaby rolling her eyes and pouring more scotch into her glass. "I changed mind, Cowboy. You are better with clothes on."

"Is anyone going to remember that I'm still in the room, or do you want to serve me my dinner and talk about fashion on your bed?" 

Napoleon grins at him and Gaby audibly sighs in the corner. He thinks that this could be a place that he'll call home, if only to remember the soft affection he's feeling now. 

"I'm sure Cowboy would only come out and spread the contents of his entire closet everywhere if we did that," he says, arranging the plates on the table. "Dance around drunk in his underwear, maybe, if you two are planning on getting alcohol poisoning."

Gaby pointedly pours more scotch into her mouth, and Illya chuckles. When he looks back up again, she's standing before him, fingers circling his wrist. 

"Do you know what you're doing," she asks, giving him the warmest smile he has ever seen from Gaby. 

"I do," he says, sure of it, and helps Napoleon carry the rest of the plates to the table. 

***

"Are you ready to go back to U.N.C.L.E.?" Illya asks when Gaby had returned home in a taxi. Napoleon is attempting to pack a bit too many of his suits into one suitcase. 

"I think so. It's better than going back to the C.I.A.," he says tightly.

Illya goes over to him, sitting at the edge of the bed. "Do you want to?"

Napoleon shrugs, and touches a few fingers to the scars on his torso, tracing the edges of them like they'd go away, if he did that long enough. 

"You'll be there, won't you?"

"Yes," Illya responds, and Napoleon kisses his mouth, lightly. 

"Would you come with me if I ran away?" 

He freezes, and looks up at him, watching the lines of his face in the dark. Even with the absence of light, he still sees the openness in his eyes, the drop of his guard. 

"I would," he says, and it's a promise.

***

When they leave, Illya looks towards the fireplace, and thinks about coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote all of this on my phone. To be completely honest? I didn't put a lot of effort into this but you guys probably finished it if you're reading and thank you for that! Well this would be the first in the series because I fell in love with writing about these two. I'm weak. comment or smth guys it's awfully quiet in here hahahaha... 
> 
> Well on a more serious note, I would like to express my ~profound gratitude~ towards everyone who stayed cheerleading for me to the end! Haha I def wouldn't have completed this fic if no one talked to me about Napollya like... I'm fickle? Thank youuu Jeanne+Jess+Hannah+Riselle!
> 
> And I'm sorry that there's no porn. There'll be porn in the next fic in this verse ok? It'll be like. PWP because I'm a pervert. We're all perverts.
> 
> [I have a man from uncle tumblr!](illyaks.tumblr.com) | [Poetry tumblr!](arquiense.tumblr.com)


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